So many colors.
They keep triggering inside me. They harstinker my memory. I see them tall in their heaps, all
mounted on top of each other. There is air like plastic, a horizon like setting glue. There are
skies manufactured by people, punctured and leaking, and there are soft, coal-colored clouds,
beating like black hearts.
And then.
There is death.
Making his way through all of it.
On the surface: unflappable, unwavering.
Below: unnerved, untied, and undone.

Autor: Markus Zusak